


Leaping Without Looking (Safety Nets)

by rightsidethru



Series: The Child of Frost and Flame [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Al and Scor have been adopted as ducklings. Or minions. I haven't decided which yet., Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Magic, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hero Worship, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Post Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Pre-Slash, Professor!Peter Hale, Slytherin!Stiles, So here: have some more, Stiles doesn't like bullies or bullshit (at all), The Nogitsune is Plotting, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, You saw a bit of the Dark Lord last fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 01:56:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12201597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightsidethru/pseuds/rightsidethru
Summary: Some things change. Some things stay the same.(aka: Stiles doesn't like dealing with bullies or bullshit and adopts two ducklings along the way; Peter's curiosity is further piqued and the Nogitsune is obviously Plotting.)





	Leaping Without Looking (Safety Nets)

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place within the first few weeks of [Mantle of Green & Crown of Silver](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11836782) (aka: the first several weeks of Stiles' sixth year at Hogwarts).
> 
>  **SPOILERS/WARNINGS :** Bullying is brought up in this installment and Stiles' excessive response to it. - Stiles catches a group of older students bullying Albus and Scorpius (mostly Al, though). He gives them the opportunity to leave, but their response is to talk about how Albus betrayed the Potter legacy by being Sorted in Slytherin. Stiles loses his temper and retaliates by sending the Tickling Charm at the bullies, not letting go of the spell until the students are out of air and afraid.

_DUMBLEDORE: You ask me, of all people, how to protect a boy in terrible danger? We cannot protect the young from harm. Pain must and will come._  
_HARRY: So I’m supposed to stand and watch?_  
_DUMBLEDORE: No. You’re supposed to teach him how to meet life._  
― Jack Thorne,  **Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Parts One and Two**

**

No matter how many people touted the opinion that the Wizarding War had changed a great many things wrong in England’s magic society, it was still an opinion that was so regularly flawed—many things were left, buried and hidden, that still needed changing. That still needed addressing. The problem was that, once an issue was no longer glaring, once it had stepped back and regulated itself to the shadows, society as a whole tended to… forget. To overlook and dismiss and pretend that it was never an issue in the very beginning—at all: out of sight, out of mind.

(It was one of Stiles’ biggest pet peeves.)

With the Wizarding War done and over with, with Head Auror Potter’s defeat of Lord Voldemort, with the Battle of Hogwarts finally healing the rift between families, with the damage done to the castle fixed years ago, the societal issues that had caused that initial divide became something hidden and secret, acknowledged behind closed doors: those on “the other side” smiled and nodded along to the status quo, went along with _how things just are nowadays_ , but at the very heart of things—well. Slytherins—the purebloods, those born to Dark families, those raised and immersed in the traditions that most had seemingly forgotten—were so very good at smiling for the public like good boys and girls.

Nothing had changed. Not really.

And the dungeons had long ago become “don’t ask, don’t tell, don’t let them know” territory.

Because of that _also_ established status quo, the sound of flesh hitting flesh wasn’t an unusual one amongst the labyrinthine corridors: aggressions buried and hidden away in darkness and shadow, prejudices still so easily spilling forth from parted lips: _the more things change, the more things stay the same_.

Stiles had been ready to ignore the sound, already immersed enough in his own hidden disputes within his new House, but the cry of pain that accompanied the hit sounded young—same as the cry of “Stop it! Leave Al alone!” that followed quick on the heels of a body staggering down to the floor, landing heavily and awkwardly on the stone.

It was tempting to keep walking, to mind his own business, but… Stiles had a particularly bad tendency of sticking his nose in other people’s business; so, too, was Stiles unable to get the familiar—and much-missed—sound of Scott’s encouragement to step up, to help someone who was obviously in need from the back of his mind. The bitten ‘wolf had always been a better person than Stiles—and perhaps that was why the amber-eyed teen had clung so desperately to their friendship; it wasn’t an internal assessment that Stiles found himself quite ready for just yet—and it was hard to shake years of habit in the few months that they had been separated.

Scott would have heard someone in distress. Scott would have gone to help them.

(Stiles, though, was the one who tended to dive head-first into trouble. And this—here, now, listening—was _trouble_.)

And yet, the teen still softly sighed to himself before shouldering his backpack more thoroughly towards the crook of his neck, settling the heavy weight more comfortably against the small of his back: perhaps the gesture wouldn’t truly be necessary, but… better safe than sorry.

“ _Hey_! What’s going on in here?” the sixth year snapped out, voice harsh and commanding as he stepped into the room where the fighting was obviously occurring.

Auror Potter’s youngest son—eleven years old and the first Potter to be Sorted into Slytherin in several generations—looked up to meet Stiles’ shuttered gaze, his own wide in pain and anger and fear. Draco Malfoy’s heir—Scorpius, if the teen remembered correctly from his other’s etiquette lessons once-upon-a-time-ago—crouched down near the dark-haired boy, partially covering Albus’ body with his own in an attempt to defend his (apparent) friend and to keep him safe.

Scorpius’ robes were torn at his collar from an obvious scuffle and the skin around the middle Potter child’s eye was already darkening in what would later become a truly spectacular bruise.

Taking in the damage that both boys were already suffering with a quick, practiced glance, Stiles directed his unimpressed gaze to the Slytherins’ opponents: seven or eight other students, male and female, the youngest at least a third year—and the transfer student caught sight of ties showing hints of blue and yellow and red.

The room was silent.

As Stiles stepped further into the one-time classroom, placing himself between the first year Slytherins and the others, the teen’s expression settled something that verged on neutral but was unsettling so—blank in the worst sort of way, whiskey-hued eyes blank even as Stiles met the other students’ gazes. Again, the American spoke though his voice was lower than it was before: “I _asked_ : What’s going on in here?”

The oldest of the group—either a sixth or seventh year—stepped forward and tilted his chin upwards, gesture defiant even as the other teen’s eyes sparked with barely-banked rage. “It’s none of your concern. You should leave now.”

Stiles allowed the silence to stretch within the room for a moment or two before meeting the angry gaze with his own still-blank one, dark eyebrow quirking even as the American settled back into a more relaxed position. “I can’t help but wonder if it’s ‘none of my concern’ because I’m a Slytherin, too—or if it’s because I’m a transfer student.” When no answer came, the whiskey-eyed boy shrugged, gesture Gallic, and easily continued, “Unfortunately for you, either reason isn’t a good enough one to make me leave. These are _first years_ and it’s obvious that the odds aren’t in their favor. Either stop and leave, now, or I’ll make you.”

“You don’t understand—your family isn’t from here, and so you don’t understand that Potter’s a traitor to his family!” one of the girls, this one wearing a yellow and black tie, snapped out as she stepped forward, face flushed and glaring angrily at Albus’ still-prone form over Stiles’ shoulder. “You don’t understand just what Harry Potter means to us, means to the wizarding world, and his _son_ got Sorted into _Slytherin_!”

“You’re right,” Stiles agreed, tone dangerously amiable even as he offered a suddenly bright, cheerful smile to the girl whose words caused Albus to flinch away from the group even moreso than before. “I don’t understand. But I also don’t care. These are my Housemates, they’re younger than I am and it’s my duty as an older student to look after them and help them when I can—and I _really, really_ don’t like bullies.”

The amber-eyed boy offered another bright, cheerful smile to the students that had gathered around in a half-circle, but this one had a darker edge to it: more teeth to glint in the shadowy confines of the old classroom, shining like a beacon of warning as the air began to slowly become more and more oppressive.

“So last chance, assholes: Leave.”

The silence lingered, stretching through the room like a rancid piece of saltwater taffy—spreading farther and farther across the distance ‘till it reached breaking point, and the standoff came to a head when one of the other students—perhaps a fifth or sixth year, a girl who wore a Gryffindor tie—shot off a spell towards the small portion of Albus’ body that peeked around the edge of Stiles’.

The spell could have been so much worse—it was only just a Stinging Hex—but the fact that the other students refused to leave and instead still tried to deal harm towards Albus and Scorpius snapped the last of the reins that the American student had held upon his temper.

Amber eyes flickered and sparked before exploding into a wildfire-fueled blaze, and the teen’s deeply red wand snapped out to catch the spell at the very tip before dissipating the spell with an ease that had come from hours upon hours of practice with Auror instructors that settled for nothing less than perfection from him.

Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Gryffindor eyes widened in surprise at the unexpected show of talent and knowledge, and the bullying students stepped back and away from an obviously angry Stiles. “ _Rictusempra!_ " the older Slytherin snapped out, voice dark and as hoarse as a raven’s croak, and silver light shot from Stiles’ wand to connect with all eight of the students who had been caught bullying Albus and Scorpius.

As one, they wheezed out what breath that had been in their lungs, doubling over and clutching their stomachs as laughter filled the abandoned classroom. On and on and on and _on_ the laughter went, Stiles refusing to let up on the spell, and the other students slowly began to collapse to their knees as fear filled their gazes: they gasped, desperate for air between bouts of laughter—even as Stiles continued putting pressure on the spell, making it stronger and stronger still until the other students were suffocating beneath it.

Only when the others’ laughter had become silent from lack of oxygen did the Slytherin finally release the students from the spell. They lay gasping, desperate and shuddering, shivering as terror made adrenaline go surging through their veins—genuinely afraid of the whiskey-eyed teen who now watched them with that too-blank expression of his.

“I catch you bullying Potter or Malfoy again—or any of the younger Slytherins—and you’ll be dealing with _me_ when I hear about it,” the transfer student stated, voice flat with the promise of future violence: laid out as a fact, comfortably and confidently said, harsh in the way that Scott never was when he promised protection (but, then again, Stiles wasn’t—couldn’t be—his best friend). Several of the bullies flinched away from the teen, eyes widening to the point that white was visible all around their irises, and one of the Ravenclaws sobbed out a breath, afraid of the threat that was so softly laid out on the table.

He offered the older students one last, dismissive glance, then turned to direct his attention to Albus and Scorpius. “C’mon, up you go. Time for a visit to the infirmary,” Stiles ordered, no-nonsense even as his hands coaxed the two boys into standing, ignoring the way that both initially flinched away from the elder’s touches. There was no violence offered in the brushes of Stiles’ hands, though: just brisk efficiency as the American student prodded Albus and Scorpius along and out of the classroom so that they could head on up to the upper floors to be looked over by the new mediwitch.

As Stiles herded the younger boys towards the stairway that would take them towards the floor with the Great Hall—and the main staircase beyond it—Scorpius paused for a moment to glance over his shoulder, meeting Stiles’ gaze with his own; fear lingered in the backs of his silver-gray eyes, though the eleven year-old no longer shied away from the older Slytherin’s touch. There was an assessing quality in his eyes, solemn with the sort of knowledge that most children raised in Dark households—sheltered though they sometimes were—tended to have.

“You used a Light spell on them,” Scorpius commented slowly as that assessing quality deepened within his starlight-tinged gaze.

“I did,” the elder Slytherin confirmed, hand settling just beneath Albus’ elbow as the boy’s leg gave out for a moment and he stumbled, nearly colliding with the wall. Immediately, the boy’s best friend was there, as well, bracing Albus against his own svelte form, arm wrapping around the green-eyed boy’s waist to keep him steady and upright for the time being.

Once Albus was no longer in danger of falling flat on his face, both first years returned their attention back to Stiles: Albus’ eyes shuttered with suspicion and pain, though Scorpius’ continued to be… weighing. Waiting. The blond continued his route of questioning: “But, even with the Lighter spell, you almost…” He trailed off, but it was easy enough for Stiles to catch the unspoken words: _you almost made them suffocate_.

The older Slytherin knew that he was brushing up against a more dangerous sort of discussion: what he had done was _wrong_ , even in defense of a younger student; by using the Lighter charm in retaliation—to punish—Stiles was able to take advantage of a loophole to the rules and avoid tripping the wards that would then alert the professors and Headmaster that Dark magic being used in the castle. But twisting the Tickling Charm in such a way to literally leave the bullies gasping and desperate for air… it was a purposeful, deliberately done act that had aimed at causing harm to another person.

Gathering together his courage once more when Stiles only offered him a carefully neutral expression in return, silent and refusing to comment upon what he had done in the younger Slytherins’ defense, Scorpius swallowed and gamely tried again: “They almost… it was _Rictusempra_. I-I don’t _understand_.”

There was a decision there, roads diverging between a variety of possibilities, even as Stiles remained quiet, considering how he wished to respond to the young Malfoy’s tentative but still deeply-twined confusion. Eventually, the whiskey-eyed teen found the words to the idea that had slowly been gathering force, coming together as a coherent whole, in the darker, more hidden parts of his mind for quite some time:

“There is no Dark or Light magic, just power and people’s determination to place labels on things—and those too foolish to understand that.”

Stiles’ words bleached the color from Albus’ face until the boy’s skin was bone white, starkly pale against the crow’s wing shade of his hair; he clutched tightly at his best friend’s robes as the wariness of the older student that had lingered in his moss-bright gaze shifted to a knowing sort of _fear_. “C-Come on, Scor,” the eleven year-old murmured, voice low and trembling slightly as those vivid eyes lowered to avoid meeting Stiles’ own. “We still… we still have homework to do.”

Attention flicking between best friend and older student, Scorpius eventually inclined his head in agreement to Albus’ words, though—before the duo disappeared from view—he still turned his head enough to the side, blonde hair brushing over the tops of his shoulders, and offered Stiles a tentative, slightly awkward smile. “…thank you for stopping them, Mr. Stilinski,” the first year said, etiquette and manners bred into him to his marrow’s quick: gratitude genuine, as well, despite the collared fear that still tinted his too-bright gaze.

“Feel better, Albus and Scorpius.”

++

Two weeks later, Scorpius stepped into the dorm room that Stiles shared with the other sixth years: shoulders back, chin tilted upwards in sorely sought-after confidence, the Malfoy heir met the older student’s gaze with his own tremulous one. As the blond boy stopped before his bed, the older teen placed a finger on the page that he had been reading, using it as a makeshift bookmark even as Stiles tilted the cover shut with a muffled _thump_. Both Slytherins waited in the silence of the room, letting the moment stretch on—though it ended up being Scorpius that finally caved first.

“They didn’t stop,” Scorpius eventually admitted in a voice that was low and rough with shame at his inability to defend himself and his friend—ignoring the fact that he was only a first year and the professors were supposed to protect _them_ in instances like this: enough safeguards should have been placed around the school to prevent this from happening as it had in years and centuries past. At this particular point in time, however, Scorpius just tilted his chin up higher, pureblood pride putting steel in his spine. “I want you to teach us how to defend ourselves. I can pay you, if it’s money that you require, Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles’ thumb _tap-tap-tap_ ed over the cover of the book as he thought.

Finally:

“…it must have continued on after I stepped in last time,” the older Slytherin began, snail-paced as he began working on the outer edges of the puzzle that lay within the Malfoy’s words. “Since you said that they didn’t stop. But something must have happened from then until now to make you finally admit to that fact and to ask me for help. What was it, Scorpius?”

The Malfoy’s lips pressed together in a firm line in reply, though it trembled at the words and emotions that Scorpius held back by sheer force of will alone.

“ _Tell me_ , Scorpius.”

The boy’s breath released on a bitten-back sob at the command, and a desolate sort of pain—resignation—slipped into the blond’s star-hued eyes as he met the transfer student’s gaze. “James—Al’s brother—was in the last group.”

Stiles stilled at that, motionless as a serpent waiting to strike, before sliding off of his bed. The book was tucked away into his trunk, hidden behind several unnervingly thorough wards, and the older Slytherin began to make his way towards the door—brushing past Scorpius along the way and settling a unexpectedly large palm over the nape of the younger boy’s neck. “Come on,” Stiles said as they headed towards the dorm room’s doorway. “Let’s go check on Albus, then.”

To Scorpius’ unexpected surprise, he began to lean into his elder’s touch, settling at Stiles’ side as the tension and fear slowly lifted themselves from his shoulders. He knew better—should have, with the stories that his father had told throughout his childhood and with the story that Albus had whispered to him, paralleled so frighteningly close to the words that Stiles had spoken two weeks before (a Dark Lord, barely more than a spirit, a deluded man who dreamt too large dreams, a hissed _“There is no good and evil, there is only power…and those too weak to seek it.”_ )—and yet, despite the knowing, sinking feeling settling in Scorpius’ stomach… he _trusted_.

There was every reason not to do so—but he did.

Scorpius couldn’t explain it, didn’t have the words or the knowledge to do so, but he trusted Stiles—knew, too, that he and Albus were in good hands and, for the first time in perhaps _years_ , allowed himself to finally feel… safe—sheltered—even as the older boy’s thumb practically circled the pale line of his throat, calloused thumb brushing reassuringly over the blond’s artery.

Yet: Scorpius settled like a hound at call, leaning his weight into Stiles’ newly familiar warmth.

++

The sight eventually became a regular one, something that the professors eventually stopped questioning and instead looked upon with restrained amusement:

Stiles Stilinski heading towards the library or Great Hall for a meal or one of the first year classes, two shadows following quick at his heels. In the beginning of this new change, Scorpius or Albus would sometimes grip the back of the sixth year’s robes tightly, clinging hard enough to white knuckle their grip and leave behind wrinkles in the black fabric. The older student never complained or demanded that they stop, however, and the incidences of nearly-desperate attempts to reassure themselves began to taper off the longer the two boys stayed near Stiles.

Early on in the changed behavior, several of the professors—Professor Sprout the main drive behind the commentary—began comparing the sight to a mother duck leading her ducklings off to a new destination, her babies refusing to stray too far from her side: always keeping her in careful sight.

What the other professors did not know—could not be aware of due to their too-human senses—was how the scent of fear spiked amongst the students of the other Houses as they caught sight of Stiles and his new _ducklings_ ; conversations would slow and then quiet completely, students silent until the older teen had walked on by: discussions would resume, this time with a slight trembling quality to their words even as certain members of the student body tried their best to pretend that everything was normal.

Oh, it wasn’t _all_ of the students—only certain members of the population’s masses in general… surprisingly (perhaps not), only the ones who had been reprimanded by the professors for _bullying_ in previous instances.

The other professors did not know because they did not have the advantage of Peter’s superior abilities: they were unable to taste the acrid stink of fear, could not scent the way that salt from sweat made the air smell sharp, prodding at the predator instincts that the ‘wolf was able to keep so carefully restricted: could not notice, as well, how James Potter always maintained a careful, consistent distance between himself and Stiles—and how the Slytherin’s gaze went particularly cold as they alit upon the third year Gryffindor.

The transfer student had done _something_ to finally nip the bullying in the bud, though the perpetrators were doing a so-carefully monitored play at pretending that everything was normal: and Stiles’ solution had been subtle and vicious enough to keep the other students from notifying the professors that retaliation had finally been taken—though it had been quiet enough that not even _Peter_ had become aware of it until recently.

Those careful manipulations trickled over that curl of interest that had slowly been unfurling the more that the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had watched the amber-eyed teen: curiosity now added as the ‘wolf pondered at how and what Stiles had done to shuffle the hierarchy, the shadowed status quo that had been established for years now. What strings had he pulled and plucked to manipulate what _had been_ into _now was_ …?

Peter didn’t know—but it had been quite some time before a new project had presented itself to him, begging to be solved; with the substandard work that the students had been submitting to him lately… well, it left the professor bored and ready to take on a new mystery, a new puzzle to work through: idle hands and minds paired with free time, after all.

The Beta ‘wolf watched as the teen and his new _ducklings_ made their way across the courtyard, his own gaze flickering with arctic blue—for just a moment—but it was long enough to catch sight of a rippling sort of movement that crested and shifted within the teen’s shadow that stretched out upon the flagstones behind him. Peter blinked, just for a moment, and a pair of tarnished silver eyes stared back at him from the midnight-limed darkness.

Peter blinked again—and the watching, wary eyes were gone, leaving behind only the Slytherin trio: Stiles to the front and flanked at his shoulders by the two younger boys, winged by dark and light, opposites still moving in concert, that both shone beneath the noontime sun.

The longer that Peter watched, the more—unsettling—the sight became.

++

“They’re growing attached to you,” Kuugeki commented idly as it stepped out from the witching hour darkness, mattress dipping slightly beneath each step from its paws as the nogitsune made its way towards its contractor. Stiles hummed lightly enough in answer, not bothering to open his eyes even as the fox settled its weight down against the graceful curve of his back.

There was another shift in weight, familiar enough that the teen didn’t bother stirring even as a too-human arm snaked around his waist and an equally familiar pair of lips curved slyly—foxlike and predatory—against the nape of his neck.

Knowing that the nogitsune wouldn’t drop the subject anytime soon—not soon enough for Stiles to return to sleep within the next minute or two—the amber-eyed mage huffed an annoyed breath and finally opened his eyes to stare at the blank wall opposite his bed.

“It doesn’t matter. They’re eleven. They don’t understand,” he answered in reply, words sharp and frankly honest as Stiles wished for nothing more than to slump back down and return to sleep: with the crescent bow of the fox’s smile, however… that desire seemed like it wouldn’t be fulfilled in the near future. Huffing a breath instead, the transfer student shifted back to settle more comfortably against the warmth that the nogitsune gave off in its human guise.

“They’ll have to make the decision eventually. And time passes faster for you mortals than you truly expect it to,” Kuugeki warned even as its warm tightened around Stiles’ middle before relaxing, allowing the teen to give in to his desire to return to sleep.

Lids lowering to half-mast at sensing the nogitsune’s willingness to let the topic drop for now, the summoner hummed again in answer before replying with, “But that’s something that needs to be decided upon tomorrow. And tomorrow is not today, Kuugeki.”

The nogitsune shifted its hold then, arm snaking upwards to press its fingertips over the tattoo that was branded just beneath the arch of Stiles’ collarbone, thumb brushing over the fox’s mark even as it allowed the wizard to drift more completely back to sleep.

Before Stiles lost all consciousness, the fox murmured once more against the familiar, steady pulse at the crook of its summoner’s throat: “What travels alone but is never alone--has a name but doesn’t exist?”

Stiles’ answering smile was a mirror to the one still pressed against the pale column of his throat.

“A shadow.”

::fin::

**Author's Note:**

> On a side note: No, this is not the last time you'll see a shifted Nogitsune. Yes, the Nogitsune tends to be a bit possessive of its contractor/summoner. No, you don't have to worry about a romantic relationship developing between the both of them--the planned endgame relationship for this series is Steter (and I'll eventually find time to write the Voiles fic I have lurking in my brain, anyway).
> 
> Leave kudos and/or a comment on the way out? :) <3


End file.
